


A Different Destiny

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Stargate Universe
Genre: Berkeley Smells Good, Cigarettes, Coffee, Desk Sex, Equations Are Sexy, M/M, Piercings, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:43:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Eight to ten years prior to A Study in Pink,  Sgt. Greg Lestrade is dispatched to Berkeley, California, to help solve a series of murders that started in London, then went international. He must question Dr. Nicholas Rush of the physics department in connection with the case. A paper thin plot as an excuse for shmexing between Rush and Lestrade.<br/></em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Destiny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> _Written as a 2011 birthday fic for thimpressionist, who introduced me to so many things, not least of which is Dr. Rush and his charms. Thank you. <3_

Sergeant Lestrade trudged up the steps to the quaint clapboard house a mile from campus. It was just after seven o’clock in the morning and the sun was burning through the mist over the Berkeley hills. God, it smelled obscenely gorgeous here. Lestrade felt overly sensitive to everything now that he was in this new environment--every cool breeze, every ray of sunlight--he felt as though he was absorbing it all instantly through his skin and it practically set him on fire, made him feel alive and full of anticipation for whatever the next moment might bring.

This was his third day making the rounds of faculty interviews with D.I. Blake and that know-it-all Parker from the FBI, so Lestrade already knew Berkeley’s distinctive morning scents: eucalyptus trees, dark-roasted coffee, marijuana, and a lot of herbal shampoo. He could smell it all every time he passed those pretty boys and girls out jogging, walking their dogs, or just making their way to and from Peet’s with lap tops and backpacks. This was another universe from the piss and blood and rain of homicide detail in London. And he had to admit, he loved it.

He’d been damn near giddy when they’d tagged him for the assignment. A trip to California to try to catch the lunatic who’d murdered four students at King’s College, two at Cambridge, another two at MIT, and now apparently had moved on to the physics department at Berkeley. Greg Lestrade was getting close to 40 now, and getting serious about his career, getting noticed--and this case could make everything come together. He was not going to screw it up.

A few of his mates found out about the trip and bought him three dozen condoms as a going away gift--demanding he ditch the work and go straight to the Castro, to see what all the fuss was about. He laughed and played along--but they all knew he’d be lucky to manage to get away from work for even a couple of hours in a bar or a club--and if the gods were willing, find a hurried hookup--just so he could say he’d been part of the San Francisco scene for one night. Not likely, but he was determined to try.

But today was a workday. Mind on the job, not on all the pale, blue-eyed boys who kept walking by and smiling at him. What was with the teeth on these kids? Pure white--and so perfect. Bloody Americans and their Holy Church of Dentistry.

Lestrade, Blake, and Carter had decided to separate today. Each would cover the big interviews for one of the three UC victims. They’d gather as much information as possible from the profs and then join up again tomorrow to weave it together at the temporary ops office in a basement at the Bureau’s San Francisco office.

Lestrade squared his shoulders and pounded on the door. Flipped through his small black spiral notebook to remind himself: This was victim Ramón Aguilar’s thesis advisor, Dr. Nicholas Rush. The man had been avoiding the FBI’s calls all week, claiming to be too busy to be interviewed. According to everyone who knew him, he was a _sarcastic, prickly, self-absorbed genius._ D. I. Blake had told Lestrade he had the right combination of toughness and charm to handle a guy like that. That sounded like a compliment, but it was, Lestrade thought, just a way of convincing a junior cop to take the pain-in-the-arse assignment.

Lestrade decided he ought to get tough from the start--no “Hello, sir, may I have a few minutes of your time” with this man.

When the door opened, Lestrade flashed both his I.D.'s--Met and temporary FBI-- and declared, “Sergeant Greg Lestrade, London Metropolitan Police, special detail to the FBI. I’m here to question you about the murder of your student,Ramón Aguilar. I’ll also need to take a look at any of Aguilar’s papers, notebooks, or digital files you may have in your possession. Best if we get started now.”

At first, there was a sort of vacant, confused look on the quirky angular, softly stubbled face. The man had a ballpoint pen in one hand and an empty coffee mug in the other and stood there--jeans, untucked greyish-blue button-down, pale, almost feminine bare feet--staring for a minute before answering.

A thick Scottish brogue assaulted Lestrade’s ears. “Ah . . . you’re with the FBI, are you? I . . . I told that lot I don’t have time to . . .” He waved his coffee cup dismissively and started to shut the door. Lestrade shoved a shoulder inside to block it.

“You need to _make_ time, Dr. Rush. We’re pursuing a serial killer and he may still be in the Bay area--if we can get enough information on his victims, we may be able to catch him before he moves on. I know the Bureau has told you all this--and you must see how urgent it is.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Look . . . “ He scratched his head and looked down at his toes. “Okay, what the hell. I’m out of coffee--so let’s go get a cup and I’ll see what I can tell you. I don’t know much. Aguilar worked on his own most of the time. He liked it that way. So did I.”

Rush didn’t invite Lestrade in. He slammed the door and was gone ten minutes. Came back wearing a brown leather jacket--old and worn, buttery-soft from the look of it, and a scuffed pair of old black boots that gave him a couple more inches in height, and a foot more swagger. 

“Okay. Let’s go.” Lestrade jogged after Rush as he marched, at surprising speed, down the street. For a little bloke, the prof was fast--and he moved, Lestrade noticed immediately, like a boxer--or, Lestrade snickered to himself, like a cowboy. A fucking Scottish cowboy? His shoulders were solid, broad, and his arms muscular, well-defined under that jacket. And his backside . . .

“Here we are--I’ll get us a couple of coffees--you want anything else?”

“Uh . . . no, no. That’s good. Large coffee, black. Thanks.”

Once they were seated in a corner of Peet’s--the corner with the massive Che Guevara poster looming over them--Lestrade closed his eyes and sniffed the rich, spicy aroma of the coffee, felt it searing his fingertips through the brown paper cup, numbing them slightly. He swallowed down the first sip and couldn’t help closing his eyes for a second and moaning with pleasure. The prof was watching him, small dark eyes squinting and yes, laughing at him.

“So, you like it, eh? Want me to leave you two alone for a minute?”

Lestrade laughed and took another sip. “Holy hell, that’s the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.”

“You’re a man after my own heart, Sergeant. I drink at least four of these a day. I’d be suicidal--or more likely, homicidal--if they ever took it away from me.”

Once Dr. Rush had a cup of coffee and a cigarette in his hand--just fingering it, flipping it over and over between thumb and index finger, occasionally smelling it absent-mindedly--no smoking allowed in the coffee shop--he seemed to relax and even seemed willing to share a bit of information.

The mood got a little friendlier and Lestrade began his round of questions, methodically running through every detail of Aguilar’s work with Rush, his outside interests, his friends and colleagues, potential enemies. Rush’s answers were clipped and pointed--and that suited Lestrade just fine. Rush asked a few questions about the larger case, the other victims--all graduate students in mathematics or physics.

As they wound down to the final few questions, Lestrade looked around at the warm, sunlit room, listened to the hiss of steam, the whispered discussions about who knows what bloody intellectual nonsense. A feeling of anticipation overcame him again.

He liked the staccato of the laptops clicking. He like the soft, round girls in glasses and sharp-edged, skinny boys in baseball caps. He wondered if he’d have finished school if it had been like this. Nah. Probably not. He’d have ended up one of those guys with shaggy hair playing guitar on the corner, trying to get enough money for lunch and beer.

One of the girls nearby, the one with glittery high heels, glanced over to smirk and roll her eyes at the senior citizens and their primitive technology. Lestrade realized they were mimicking each other precisely--he and Rush--both flipping through the pages of their small spiral notebooks and humming to themselves--Lestrade with his pen in his mouth, Rush with his unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

Lestrade started watching the man’s movements, his little tics and gestures. The way he pushed his fine brown hair out of his face with graceful little flicks of his fingers. The way he carefully put on his silver reading glasses to jot down some names of other students Lestrade should talk to. Lestrade noticed how much larger and deeper the dark eyes got behind the lenses. Saw the piercing intelligence there, and the distance too. Rush behaved as if he were really somewhere else right now, maybe some where inside his own head, maybe in another solar system.

Lestrade found himself counting the lines around Rush’s eyes as he talked, watching for the prof’s brief, satisfied smile as he raised his coffee cup to his lips. The way he inhaled and then blew on the hot liquid. The way he looked over Lestrade’s shoulder and out the window of the shop--yeah, the guy was definitely not in the here and now. But Christ, there was something about him. He wasn’t really beautiful, this man--but Lestrade never did go for the conventionally handsome ones; he liked the weird, the odd, the guys who sometimes seemed as if they were from another planet . . . Rush fit that description and was downright magnetic in his own “get out of my way and fuck you very much” way.

Lestrade asked to see Aguilar’s notebooks from previous years--the ones Rush had in his office. Rush reluctantly agreed. They both rose from their seats and reached for a spoon left on the table and as their hands brushed, Lestrade felt trouble. He'd be right to call it Big Trouble. Hadn’t felt this way in a long time. _Fuck_. He was half hard and knew he’d probably stay that way the rest of the morning, just being within ten feet of the prof. _Godammit_. He felt a little dizzy--as though he’d just stepped off a cliff and was falling into an abyss--a dark, hot, “I need you to fuck me open and fill me up _now._ “ abyss. _Shit._ Such big trouble.

If this were some chance meeting in Chelsea or a pub near the Yard, he’d have known exactly what to do. He’d have flirted--used his eyes, the overbite--those always worked. He’d have made a decision: Get this man’s cock out of his pants as soon as possible. But here he was on the job, with a source--not some random stranger. Likely the only thing he’d get out of this day was a long, uncomfortable morning--and maybe a chance to jerk off in some gents somewhere before he died of wanting this Scottish California cowb oy physicist up his arse. Might as well finish the work now, so he could get on with the wank, and get it off his mind.

They walked outside and Lestrade bummed a cigarette, trying to take his mind off the tightness in his trousers. Rush smiled and pulled the pack out of his jacket pocket, then tapped it and removed a single long, white cigarette and placed it between Lestrade’s lips. He placed another between his own thin, smirking lips and lit them both with a single match. Without thinking, as Rush was waving the match, Lestrade reached out and grabbed hold of Rush’s wrist before he could take it away. Grabbed it tight, thinking about wrapping his fingers around the man's cock . . . but Rush gave him a challenging "don't touch me" look, and he let it go.

Lestrade swallowed hard and stared at the stop sign on the street in front of him. Good. Big red stop sign. _STOP._ _Get your head in the game, Lestrade._

 

******

 

The cop and the prof walk through campus silently--smoking and watching the kids with their long, shiny hair and bare shoulders.

Finally, they’re in Rush’s office--and it’s . . . it’s bloody freaky, is what it is. _Jesus_ \--Lestrade has never seen anything like it: Pages of notes--some on white paper, some on yellow post-its; some weird drawings and photographs of comets and galaxies pinned up on every inch of wallspace. But mostly it’s just a room full of equations. A white board behind the desk is so crowded with numbers and symbols Lestrade has no idea where to even begin to look. And the desk--looks like Rush doesn’t even sit at the desk--it’s covered with stacks of books and student papers and old coffee cups--and a coffee can full of blue markers for the whiteboard.

Lestrade approaches the board and stares at the mysterious jumble of equations--He understands nothing--nothing but a few numbers--he sees an = and a lot of {} and [] and so many letters, most of them x’s. Makes him a little nervous-- especially when he sees that Rush is staring at him, not moving.

“Want another cigarette?” Rush is putting another in his own mouth--wetting his lips first. Christ, does he know what that’s doing to Lestrade’s pulse? Lestrade says nothing, and Rush offers him what’s left in the pack.

Lestrade pauses. He’s gotta focus. Focus on the questions. The investigation.

“No. Thanks--maybe after I go through some of Aguilar’s stuff . . .”

“Okay. Here--for later.” And Rush slips a half empty pack into Lestrade’s shirt pocket. Through the thin cotton, the prof’s knuckles brush against the small silver hoop on Lestrade’s left nipple. Lestrade can’t help it. He closes his eyes for a moment and feels heat--his blood simmering, and the sensation moves from his chest through his arms and up his neck--and back down to his groin--in seconds.

Rush lets out a little gasp--almost undetectable, except to an aspiring detective--and when Lestrade opens his eyes, he sees the prof’s lips open as he steps closer and moves first his knuckles, then the tips of his long, skinny fingers inside Lestrade's breast pocket, rubbing the silver ring--fascinated.

Lestrade is standing with his back to the whiteboard full of undecipherable equations now, and trying to decide if he can--and should--yeah, he really should--stop this right now. But the piercing-- Rush just keeps fingering it--is sending impulses to Lestrade’s brains--the one in his head and the one in his cock. Rush takes another small step forward and puts both palms on Lestrade’s chest, pushing him firmly back so that his shirt--now damp with sweat--is pressed against the board, smearing the equations and transferring them to the white cotton canvas stretched across Lestrade's back.

And now it’s just going to happen. Lestrade can feel the inevitability of it. Can feel _wantwantwant_ consuming him. And he can barely stand up, so he leans back farther against the board, jutting his hips forward--an invitation.

Rush is talking now, and Lestrade thinks he should focus on the words maybe, instead of just the look of those thin, wet lips. “Tell me, _Sergeant_. Tell me. What do you want?”

Lestrade is so far gone now, he can’t answer. He pulls Rush’s mouth to his and it’s so messy, so sloppy--he’s not even trying to fit their lips together properly, letting the slick, hot, dirty press of tongues and teeth work itself out. He doesn't want to think about it, just wants to feel it right now.

Deep. Rush’s mouth feels deep---seems to go on forever and that’s a promise of more good things to come. And Rush’s tongue feels strong--a muscle that wants to wrestle. _OK. Let’s go_ , thinks Lestrade. _Pin me down and fuck me with your tongue._

Lestrade just wants to be fucked completely--'til there’s nothing left of him, 'til he can feel Rush’s cock inside him all the way to his chest--all the way to his throat, godammit.

He suddenly realizes the man’s hands are strong too. Those hands that are squeezing Lestrade’s cock through his khakis and bringing him near the fucking edge already-- _way too soon._

 _Not yet. Not yet._ Lestrade pushes Rush’s hands away.

Rush pulls back now and looks at Lestrade. Lestrade can’t catch his breath--he’s panting as though he’s just got done sprinting a thousand yards and Rush’s face is right there, watching, feeling his breath--swallowing down his breaths. Rush's hands move back to fondling Lestrade's cock through his trousers, softer, more carefully this time.

Lestrade smells the cigarettes and that rich, dark coffee and can’t help choking out a laugh. _I should fucking marry this guy_ he thinks. _I could come just from the way he smells._

But now there’s a change.

Rush takes his hands away from between Lestrade’s legs and combs his fingers through Lestrade’s thick brown hair. And that feels so intimate, so . . .  why does _that_ suddenly feel like Rush is crossing a line? A line that groping his cock didn’t come close to. Rush is pulling his fingers through Lestrade’s hair and mumbling some kind of filthy nonsense that’s got Lestrade’s knees almost buckling under him.

“So you want to be fucked, don't you? I'll fuck you. Get out of those clothes. I want you naked. I want to look at you.”

Lestrade sighs as Rush pulls his hands away from his hair-- _my god, that was . . . Christ, those fingertips on his scalp_ \--and now Rush is unbuttoning his shirt, Lestrade’s white shirt, the back covered in splotchy blue ink. The shirt falls to the floor and Lestrade feels a wave of chilly air on his damp skin. He feels vulnerable suddenly. Weak. And he likes it.

Lestrade knows  what’s coming, and the crazy, dizzy buzzing in his head is getting louder now.

Rush flattens his tongue against Lestrade’s right nipple, and then he draws a circle around it with the wet, sharp point of his tongue and then he sucks. He sucks at Lestrade’s tit and rubs his palm against Lestrade’s cock through his trousers so hard and fast that Lestrade loses his balance, loses his breath, almost loses his mind. He reaches back to grab the cold metal edge of the whiteboard to steady himself, and at the same time thrusts his hips forward, trying to grind harder into Rush, into his bony hip. Rush responds by cupping both hands around Lestrade’s buttocks and squeezing, pulling him forward and then licking his way across the copper’s chest to his pierced pink left nipple.

The trembling starts at Lestrade’s toes and moves up through his legs (every hair standing on end, and Lestrade unable to bear the intensity of that sensation without crying out), and up into his groin and _Jesus God in Heaven,_ Rush is rolling the hard little nub around with his tongue and sucking and biting--and still squeezing Lestrade’s arse as if he was trying to . . .

“I want to fuck you now--you got any condoms? Any lube?”

“Yeah. I . . . my wallet. My pockets . . . I . . .”

Rush doesn’t wait. Searches Lestrade’s pockets and finds the condoms and lube. Rush has one hand wriggling into Lestrade’s boxers now, doing some reconnaissance. Seems to like what he finds there.

Then the khakis and underwear are off and Rush is pushing the copper face down on to the desk, pulling Lestrade’s hips back and shoving two fingers into him. It’s fast, it’s aggressive, but it’s exactly what Lestrade wants. _How does Rush know exactly . . . ._ And Rush starts spreading him open with a practiced ease. He doesn't ask permission for anything--knows by the way Greg's breath is catching and he's starting to moan, that he can do whatever he wants. And now the prof’s fingering Lestrade’s prostate, making him gasp and writhe and clench.

Intense pleasure, the likes of which he hasn't seen in eons, it seems. More waves of desire.

All Lestrade can think now--with those fingers inside him and Rush now leaning over him--buttery leather jacket rubbing against his bare back--- _oh God, he is a fucking cowboy_ \-- and the man is pulling his hair again--all he can think is, _Break me open, get your prick inside me and let me beg you to come._

Reading Lestrade’s mind, Rush pulls down his own zip and pulls out his cock. Fingers slide out of Lestrade and he can hear the condom package opening. A mumbled curse. Rush's jeans dropping to the floor. Lestrade’s cock is leaking, pink, and so hard . . . the feel of it trapped between his stomach and the mass of paper and books on the desk is glorious. The idea of coming all over some of those pretty boys’ exams is seriously . . . _yes_. . . . seriously brilliant.

He feels a hot tongue on his neck now, the scratch of stubble and then teeth along his spine--just nibbles--Rush doesn't break the skin, although Lestrade wouldn't mind a few souvenirs of this day.

The pulsebeat in his cock is pounding as Rush finally pushes into him, slick, hard; not thick, but long. Lestrade groans like some street-corner whore. Rush laughs softly, then digs his fingers into Lestrade’s hips and starts thrusting. It’s slow and lazy at first and the sound of their skin slapping, wet with sweat now, is downright obscene. It’s like Rush is an animal now--just cock and claws, and he’s speeding up and hitting that perfect, tight, sensitive spot every time. He’s grunting now, and getting close, Lestrade can hear it, can feel it.

“Touch yourself, Sergeant. This party’s almost over.”

And Lestrade barely needs to stroke his cock once--Rush slams into him so hard, so fucking perfect that the orgasm hits them both at the same time and reverberates through Lestrade’s body 'til he’s sure some bones are cracking; the shudders keep going as Rush pulses and spills inside him, lube leaking down Lestrade’s thighs now as Rush pulls out, panting and just saying over and over, “Good, good, good, bloody good.”

 

Lestrade pulls Rush to the floor with him, wrestling him into a post-coital hold that neither of them would call a cuddle--it’s just a position where they can rest for a few minutes, and keep skin-to-skin. Get the blood going back up to their brains. Get things in perspective.

In a few minutes, Rush has a revelation as they lie beside his desk, breathing coming back to normal at last. The professor knows where the serial killer will go next--based on the thesis research of all the previous victims--the stuff he and Lestrade had talked about back at the coffee shop.

“He’s going to the University of Chicago. Max Graham’s doctoral students--probably either Maron or Patel. I’m sure of it. You’d best call somebody and catch the next flight.”

Rush put on his glasses, trousers, belt; looks at his watch--and heads for his 10 a.m. class. The Scottish cowboy swagger is even more arrogant now, if that's possible.

“Lock the door when you leave, Sergeant. And let me know if you catch the killer. It’s been a pleasure.”

Lestrade, D. I. Blake, and that annoying prick from the FBI catch a plane to Chicago that afternoon, and they do indeed catch a serial killer.

******

A few years later, D.I. Lestrade meets another difficult, self-absorbed genius, and he has some good ideas about how to best put the man to use.

 


End file.
